


The Walls Between Us

by stickmarionette



Series: Read All About It [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Closeted Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary, Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26372839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: Lorenz had seen Von Riegan play only a few times, and been vaguely annoyed by - the whole package, really. The ridiculous haircut, the earring, the cheeky flourishes, the showboating. The laughable bad boy reputation he'd already been saddled with by the tabloid press.In person he was unfortunately magnetic, the kind of boy Lorenz would have furiously resented for existing before he figured out what that funny, stomach-twisting feeling actually meant.Derdriu Football Club acquires a new captain, much to Lorenz's displeasure.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Series: Read All About It [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936021
Comments: 19
Kudos: 87





	The Walls Between Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merionettes (acchikocchi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/gifts).



> merionettes is responsible for a lot of this and is the reason it exists. Thanks for being in the pit with me, buddy.
> 
> Thanks to aworldinside for beta reading.
> 
> In the notes at the end I go into some of the choices made in this fic, which might be interesting for the football fans among you, but the short version is that I basically went 'what if the EPL but Fodlan?'

> **_THE HOMECOMING: Derdriu FC confirms Von Riegan signing_ **
> 
> _\- Transfer fee agreed with Garreg Mach United_
> 
> _\- Midfield ace to sign contract on Monday, be given number 10 shirt_

The billboards go up in Derdriu before the man himself arrives.

Claude Von Riegan's enigmatic smile is everywhere, three stories tall and dazzling, although there's something oddly empty about it. Whatever he's advertising, it's a miserable failure. Impossible to look and see anything but him - the sharp-boned face, strands of silky hair falling into those famous green eyes, the curve of his mouth that seems to invite mischief.

[three years ago]

Lorenz first met the man at some insufferable sponsor event. Degrading, his father would have said, lowering yourself to the level of a circus animal, so of course Lorenz could never shake the feeling no matter how much money they were paying for him to be there.

He'd been miserable, and a little irritated by just how much fun the new kids seemed to be having, although truth be told it was mostly Von Riegan and Caspar von Bergliez from FC Merceus who took to it like a fish in water. Of the usual crowd Dimitri Blaiddyd looked even more uncomfortable than Lorenz felt and Ferdinand, his usual companion for these things, was nowhere to be seen.

As Lorenz watched, Von Riegan draped a casual arm around Blaiddyd's shoulder, leaned close to whisper into his ear, and the terror of defences all over Fodlan blushed like a teenage girl. Honestly.

Lorenz retreated to a corner during a break to make his complaints.

> Lorenz:
> 
> Where the hell are you.
> 
> I am Ferdinand von Aegir:
> 
> Sorry, I had a scheduling clash so Caspar came instead.
> 
> It's not that bad is it.

"Hey, Gloucester. Why the long face?"

Back then few knew Von Riegan's name. Lorenz had seen him play only a few times, and been vaguely annoyed by - the whole package, really. The ridiculous haircut, the earring, the cheeky flourishes, the showboating. The laughable bad boy reputation he'd already been saddled with by the tabloid press.

In person he was unfortunately magnetic, the kind of boy Lorenz would have furiously resented for existing before he figured out what that funny, stomach-twisting feeling actually meant.

 _Oh no,_ he thought, and prayed his voice would come out something like normal.

"These things are a complete waste of time."

Perhaps he overdid it a little on the aloofness; Von Riegan's smile gained an edge. For Lorenz's sins it only made him even more compelling. Like you'd thank him for tormenting you.

"Oh, I know, it's terrible. Wanna ditch?"

"I - I don't think that would be proper," Lorenz spluttered.

"Well, if you want to be _proper_ , I guess."

Von Riegan shrugged easily, already turning his attention to his next victim.

The next day some gossip website had pictures of Von Riegan and Bergeliz at a bar. He'd even dragged Blaiddyd along somehow - probably by grinning at him until he caved. The poor man obviously hadn't been allowed near a drop of alcohol growing up in the Fhirdiad City academy, and was the only one who looked obviously inebriated in the photos.

That one had legs - a young starlet from the notoriously rough and tumble United squad, corrupting an icon of upright, noble Fodlani manhood, a man who'd never been the subject of a negative story. It occupied the gutter press for weeks until Von Riegan scored the winner in the central Fodlan derby, and then there was a very different conversation.

[present day]

_Von Riegan speaks perfect Common Fodlani, with a Leicester lilt, reasonable High Adrestian, as well as Old and Common Almyran, and most people would tell you he can talk as well as he plays in any of them._

_He's doing a political science degree part-time through the University of Derdriu and is an ambassador for anti-racism and anti-poverty NGOs. And of course he has that polarising weekly column in the Leicester Independent. At his old club Garreg Mach United they joked about football being his third job._

_He's also the man who was fined $50,000 by United for a prank that ended with half the first team squad being photographed in their underwear at 3 in the morning. Most infamously, he was one of the participants in the Battle at the Bridge - some would say the instigator._

_"Because I wanted to give the fans something to cheer?" he says when I bring it up. "I nutmegged him. That's all I did. He's the one who pushed me."_

_He says you provoked him, I point out. Something about your shirt being available for purchase if he wanted it so badly._

_"He got sent off because he pushed me. Not because of anything else. I don't know what I did to provoke him." He shrugs. "Some people feel pretty provoked by me just existing, I guess."_

_Claude von Riegan was born in Bursa, the Almyran capital, to a mysterious Almyran father and Tiana von Riegan, herself a figure of some infamy thanks to the family name and of course the incident where she went missing for years and was presumed dead only to turn up years later with a son in tow._

_The story goes that the 12 year old Von Riegan attended trials at a few clubs and was rejected again and again for being too slight before United took a chance on him._

_United manager Seteth Cichol relays the story with a shake of his head. He'd been head of youth development then and vividly remembers the bright-eyed kid coming up to him at half time._

_"I thought he might try to plead his case. But he wanted to talk tactics, and he had very good suggestions. Shockingly good."_

_Von Riegan's game is relatively rare in Fodlan - a unique blend of flair, skill and intelligence. Few have the kind of touch and trickery he offers. The suspicion has always been that he's something of a luxury player in a league known for blood and thunder. So why add someone like that to the midfield of an under performing team like Derdriu?_

_Perhaps it offers some clues as to the vision of incoming manager Byleth Eisner, himself something of an enigma._

_Eisner's insistence led to a months long transfer saga and an eye-watering fee being paid to United to finally prise Von Riegan free. If Von Riegan feels any pressure to deliver after all that, it certainly doesn't show._

_"I just want the fans to have fun watching us. It's going to be a great season, I promise."_

*

After all the columns and breathless tweets and endless back and forth and months of negotiations, until Lorenz is heartily sick of being asked about Claude Von Riegan and starts dreading his arrival, it turns out that he's - fine.

Personable, no airs, no entourage, no pretensions. Most of the team instantly prefer him to Lorenz - he of the lectures about the Derdriu Way and the disapproving glances - and before long they're inviting him out and ribbing him for how long he spends in front of the mirror.

Objectively, Lorenz spends just as much time in front of the mirror, but he doesn't respond well to the kind of ribbing that seems to be the lifeblood of every dressing room, and every other player here knows it.

But to hand someone like Von Riegan the captaincy? A new kid, a flashy show pony with a reputation for trouble? What does he know about the club? How can he feel anything for it, anything close to how he should?

Lorenz needs to stop grinding his teeth before the physios start lecturing him.

*

_Lorenz Gloucester plays the game like he's got ice in his veins. Like he could play in a tuxedo, perhaps while carrying a martini. Slide tackles are for other people, which is a curious state of mind for a defensive midfielder._

_"Every slide tackle is an admission of error," he says, when I ask about his defensive approach. "My role's about positioning, movement. Making the right decisions so that you're in the right place at the right time to receive a pass, make a pass. Intercept the ball."_

_A singular mindset for a unique footballer. He's loath to discuss his background, the rich property magnate father, the private school upbringing. Choosing a short and sharp career on the football pitch over the family business._

_We'd been warned he could be very particular. Sure enough, Gloucester turns up to our photoshoot in a sharp purple blazer and staunchly refuses to let the stylist touch his famously long hair._

_The story goes that one and only time he'd ever thought of leaving Derdriu Football Club was when a youth team coach threatened to cut it for him. The thought of losing the crowning jewel of their youth system had deterred any further attempts._

*

"Can you please stop staring at Von Riegan, you're freaking me out," Raphael says.

They're taking a water break during training, and Lorenz has not been staring. Glaring, possibly, despite his best efforts. It's just that Von Riegan's fluttering around without a care in the world and it's infuriating, the day after a game they should have won but didn't.

"I'm not staring," he says stiffly. "Just wondering what our captain thinks about us getting outshot by Myrddin yesterday."

"You're being unfair," Holst - Holst! - says, in an undertone.

Lorenz can't help feeling a little betrayed. If anyone should be on his side, it's Holst, the one who got replaced by the upstart as club captain, who was brought up in the club just like Lorenz and understands what it means. Holst wouldn't be swanning around like this the day after a loss.

As he's opening his mouth to deliver this brilliant counter-argument, Von Riegan saunters past, arm in arm with Ignatz. Ignatz's looked like somebody shot his puppy since yesterday - he'd been the one struggling desperately up front, and on his first start too - but as Lorenz watches, Von Riegan beams at him and he manages a watery smile back.

Lorenz shuts his mouth.

*

On the pitch, though, that's a different story. On the pitch Von Riegan's magic. He glides above all the dirt and fury like it can't even touch him. Like it's a dance, not a grind. It's gorgeous. It seems cosmically unfair that someone so nonchalant about everything has this inside him. Lorenz might be a little jealous and a little in love with his first touch.

*

Their first big game of the season is against AFC Enbarr. It's probably come far too soon for them, a new team still learning to play with each other, and they're struggling against the pace and power of their opponents.

Ferdinand's going to be so smug if they can't even beat Enbarr at home. So much for the fabled fortress Derdriu.

Lorenz picks up the ball from halfway up the pitch, too far to do any good. He makes the pass - it's a good one. Always the right pass.

Von Riegan's already shouting for the ball, for the wingers to move up, and for Lorenz to stay and cover, and it's then that Lorenz sees a gap in the Enbarr midfield and has a rush of blood to the head he will later find immensely embarrassing.

He doesn't stay. He runs. Five seconds later, someone loses the ball, Ferdinand goes thundering through the gap where Lorenz should be, and the ball's in Holst's net and Holst is glaring daggers at Lorenz.

He's still glaring as they all pile into the dressing room at full time, but Holst never wants to open his mouth after a loss, so at least Lorenz will be spared one tongue-lashing.

Eisner's, he deserves, and if it's in front of the whole team, well, that's just how it's done here. He fucked up, he's going to grit his teeth and bear it, even if he'd like nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow him.

Lorenz repeats this to himself as he sits frozen, alone, all his teammates having decided to give the disaster zone a wide berth.

"Lorenz," Eisner says quietly.

Lorenz makes himself look up. "I know," he croaks. "It's my fault. I needed to stay and cover."

"You needed to listen to Claude. He's my captain, he's my voice on the pitch."

"I - yes. You're right," Lorenz mumbles. At Eisner's pointed look he directs his next words at Von Riegan, sitting off to his side, carefully blank faced. "I'm sorry."

Von Riegan shrugs. "It's fine. You know not to do it again."

Lorenz can't tell if he means it, if it really doesn't bother him to have a teammate do something this stupid in one of their biggest games of the season. He's not sure he's ever seen the person behind Von Riegan's smile.

Not until he vaults up to stand on the bench in the middle of the dressing room and claps his hands together.

"Hey you bastards, listen up."

He's still smiling, but for the first time Lorenz knows what was so off about those billboards. There's a fire in his eyes. When he looks at Lorenz it's like a bolt of static electricity down his spine.

"I'm not gonna say it was okay that we lost to Enbarr. It's not. But we all know how fine the margins were out there. We weren't inferior. That's why we're gonna win the next game, and the one after that, and we'll go to their house and tear it down. You guys know how much I fought to come here. I really believe in us. I hope you do too."

*

Something changes, after the Enbarr game. Not just with Lorenz - with the whole team. Something clicks. They start winning.

It's like this: Lorenz makes the passes that tell them where to run. He gets the ball. More often than not he gives it to Claude. Claude takes it and makes - magic. An impossible pass, a dribble, a swerve that leaves an opponent on the ground, a specular goal.

On the pitch, they look for each other and find each other again and again.

Lorenz hadn't imagined it could be like this. Sure, he's seen other players talk about midfield partnerships born of years playing together. But they've only known each other a few months and he already feels his spine straighten every time Claude wanders into a room, like a yank on some ineffable string.

Their next big game is against Fhirdiad City. It's tense, a tight game without much space. Blaiddyd is charging around the pitch like a wrecking ball; Lorenz collided with him earlier and he's going to have no end of bruises.

There's not much time left. Then Lorenz gets the ball.

He knows without looking what he needs to do. He can picture the entire play in his head. The pass is cushioned, perfectly weighted; it flies like an arrow and takes out three defenders and lands at Claude's feet like a faithful pet. Claude loses the last defender with a swing of his hips, a swerve of the ball, and then he's perfectly placed, and the shot is - one in a million, no backlift, no warning. Of course. Straight into the top corner.

Because he's ridiculous Claude leaps into a front flip and lands on the balls of his feet, arms out, a king demanding tribute from his subjects; the fans roar and bow and chant his name. He soaks it up for a moment, for an eternity.

Later, Holst will say he's never seen Lorenz run so fast.

Lorenz doesn't think he's ever run so fast. His mind's empty of anything but what just happened, the ease of it, how he knew where Claude was without even looking.

Then he's there and Claude barrels into him so hard it bears them both down to their knees, their arms around each other. It feels right, like the completion of a circuit.

Claude looks at Lorenz like he's something miraculous. They're so close, faces pressed against each other, and for a mad moment he thinks Claude's going to kiss him, right in front of 50,000 screaming fans and Goddess knows how many more watching on TV.

*

> **_DERDRIU BAD BOY'S BIG NIGHT OUT WITH TEAMMATE'S SISTER_ **
> 
> _Derdriu captain Claude Von Riegan was spotted at a trendy bar downtown cuddled up with Hilda Goneril, the younger sister of Derdriu goalkeeper Holst Goneril. Sources say the pair seemed to be close and stayed til the early hours of the morning._

*

"Teammate's sister, honestly. She's played for Derdriu far longer than me," Claude says breezily, throwing the paper down on the breakfast table.

Lorenz brushes it away from his plate with a disgusted sniff. "Is that your biggest problem with this trash?"

For some reason Claude takes his response as an invitation to sit down next to him.

"It's not my only problem, but it is the one currently blowing up my phone."

For once Lorenz can't blame the gossips for speculating. Claude and Hilda look comfortable with each other in the photos. Intimate. In one of them she has her head on his shoulder. In another his arm is around her waist. They're squeezed into one of those dark corner booths, their thighs touching, laughing and trying each other's drinks. They're a good looking couple.

There's no rational reason why that should make him feel so wretched.

"You dating?" Caspar asks. He'd fled Merceus for Derdriu this season too, but with much less fuss than their other big money transfer.

Claude laughs. "What, you think Holst wouldn't kill me?"

"Not you. I'd just hurt you a little," Holst says, deadpan, and Claude looks genuinely touched.

After all, Holst is notoriously protective and has the six foot three frame to back it up. Every time Lorenz faces him in training he understands why he's so good - he just looks unbeatable, larger than life.

"That means a lot to me, man. Honest."

Claude reaches over and pats Holst on the arm. Holst allows it with a look of amused tolerance.

"Try not to get photographed next time," Lorenz says.

Claude elbows him. "That's all? No lecture?"

"I try not to waste my breath. You know the rules."

"Yeah. I don't go out before games. I don't get photographed falling down drunk or making out with anybody I'm not dating. I must be the most boring excuse for a 'bad boy'" - he does air quotes - "they've ever seen."

"I'm sure the tabloid industry of Derdriu is heartbroken that your lifestyle isn't nearly as debauched as the central Fodlan papers made it out to be," Lorenz says dryly.

"They're prudes over there, it's all Church this and macho posturing that and no fun."

"As opposed to our lifestyle of training sessions and early bedtimes?"

Claude only smiles at his arch tone. "Trust me. This is better."

*

> _" **HE SHOWED A LACK OF RESPECT FOR THE CLUB": FANS BLAST DERDRIU FC CAPTAIN CLAUDE VON RIEGAN ON SOCIAL MEDIA AFTER EDGAR GONERIL HANDSHAKE SNUB**_
> 
> _\- Von Riegan caught on video refusing to shake hands with club legend Edgar Goneril_
> 
> _\- Club statement: "Matter is being dealt with internally"_
> 
> _\- Goneril's nephew Holst yet to comment_
> 
> **Derdriu Ultras** @DerdriuGold Should Claude von Riegan be stripped of the captaincy? Vote in our poll http://bit.ly/Respect

*

Lorenz has to drive very carefully into training so he doesn't hit the scores of paparazzi camped out outside. Not that it'd be any loss if he did - they just can't afford any more negative headlines.

A part of him can't help but be frustrated; they're flying in the league, everything's going as well as it ever does around here, and their captain had to go and make waves, because he doesn't know how to do anything else.

That's not fair, though, is it.

Lorenz hadn't been there, but he's been to enough events with Edgar Goneril to know that it's a challenging experience at the best of times. He still vividly remembers his first senior event, the old man smirking at him and offering to introduce him to some girls, _you look like you could use it, get that stick out of your ass, or they're going to eat you alive in that dressing room_.

He doesn't even want to think about what Goneril might have said to Claude. The possibilities are dire.

Lorenz is early for pre-training breakfast. He always is, but today Claude's there too, and he usually appears just before he'd cop a fine. Other than that he seems perfectly relaxed, that enviable poise entirely intact.

"Okay, let's have it," Claude says, dropping into the chair next to Lorenz.

"I don't know what you mean."

"C'mon, I even showed up early. Where's my mandatory lecture? I was insufficiently respectful to some old bigot and this is gonna hurt the team, blah blah. Let's get it over with."

Lorenz is too thrown to do anything but blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Goneril isn't just an old bigot - "

He winces even as he's saying it, and Claude catches it, of course, but he doesn't relent. His eyes make Lorenz think of gemstones, hard and gleaming.

"You want me to Google all the shit he's said and show you?" He pulls out his phone and starts typing. "Here, look, 10 most outrageous interviews - "

Lorenz puts a hand on his arm and Claude's words cut off. They've touched before, of course, countless times; they play on the same team, after all. But somehow this still feels transgressive in some important way.

"I know, Claude. Did he - say something to you? Is that why?"

"It's not," Claude says, and there's nothing casual about his bearing now, rather the defiant dignity that Lorenz recognises from wearing it like armour to ward off the world himself.

He'd needed it, for all the jokes about his hair, his clothes, his mannerisms, the rumours that followed him all the way through the youth teams and into the terraces, and the comments and outright slurs on his infrequently updated social media.

Not many people know Lorenz walked out on his father as a teenager. Even fewer know why.

"Pardon?"

"I was going to do it, you know. Bow and scrape and tick the damn box. He's at least related to people I like. But you've heard the chants about me. About my mom. What they say about my dad. Calling him a kidnapper and - and worse."

Truth be told, Lorenz tries not to. Some argue this is part of the sport's draw, the chants and the sledging, the abusive banners and jokes. But he's been hit enough in soft, vulnerable places to know better.

He swallows and makes himself meet Claude's cool, evaluating gaze. "I'm sorry."

Claude shrugs. "You didn't do anything. Do you get my point? Goneril never fucking shuts up about Almyrans, and he's retired so the league can't even slap him on the wrist for it. The club doesn't want to do anything because he's a _legend_ , but they can't make me pretend it's fine. So I didn't. I'll sit for the lecture if you want to give me one. Just don't expect me to change my mind."

It's true that Lorenz hadn't done anything. Maybe that's the problem.

His loud devotion to the Derdriu Way, _together as one_ , all of it prompts no end of mocking, sometimes from his own teammates who aren't in quite as deep as he is. But everyone knows he means it. The club is important for the city, for the entirety of what used to be Leicester. The players are role models, even if they don't mean to be. They have reach that politicians and educators can't match. That implies a certain standard of behaviour, and that standard is more important than any trophy.

Perhaps he's been somewhat slack in how he applies those standards. Downright shameful that it took an outsider to show him that. He doesn't owe Claude a lecture. Quite the opposite.

"I would never try to change your mind on this. I should thank you for showing leadership," Lorenz says, and he reaches out for Claude's hand, to show he means it. "For whatever it's worth, I'm with you."

Claude's eyes widen like saucers, and then he smiles, and his eyes blaze. "It's worth a lot from you."

His grip is gentle but firm, and Lorenz feels strangely flustered even though it's a cool winter morning.

*

_[Footage from Derdriu FC pre-match press conference]_

_Journalist: Lorenz, can you comment on the incident at the club function last week between Von Riegan and Edgar Goneril?_

_LG: Claude is our captain. We all support him. Aren't you always complaining how we never do anything interesting? Claude's actions brought up something worth talking about. All the column inches just proves it._

_We should talk about what the Derdriu Way means. A club like ours can't stagnate. We have to move forward with the world._

*

The result is king whatever anyone says. That's the ultimate truism in football, and even a romantic like Lorenz has to admit it. They keep winning, and the fans put their pitchforks away for another day.

He had been obliquely worried about Holst's reaction to the whole thing - they're old friends, and it's not his fault the old man is odious - but Holst just carries on laughing and joking with Claude like nothing happened.

They're cooling down after a typically riotous training game, during which Claude seemed to make a game out of beating each of the defenders one on one and basically made steam come out of Raphael and Caspar's ears.

"How come you always beat me?" Caspar says plaintively after dumping a whole bottle of water over his head. "You're not much faster. Why can't I catch you?"

Claude grins. "You're too easy to fool. Don't follow the eyes. The moment you do you've lost me. I never look where I'm going to aim. You need to read the attacker's body language. See, look at Lorenz. The way he shapes his body for the pass - " He sidles up next to Lorenz, standing with the ball at his feet after a frustrating round of freekick practice, and then his hands are on Lorenz's waist and sliding down, and his touch is like a brand even through two layers of fabric. "It's in the hips. Lorenz, show him - "

He might go on; Lorenz can't hear him past the sudden roaring in his ears. He hopes fervently that Claude didn't feel him shiver like a love-struck idiot.

Luckily he can strike a pass blindfolded and falling down drunk. It doesn't quite go where it should - in fact it almost hits the prone Holst in the head - but Lorenz is going to cut himself some slack for once.

Claude steps back and Lorenz feels some semblance of sense return.

"See? Much harder to lie with your body," Claude says to Caspar, throwing Lorenz a side-long glance, and for a moment Lorenz is as afraid as he's ever been, but Claude just grins like he's sharing a joke.

"Right," Lorenz manages.

*

Lorenz's deeply embarrassing and unspeakable crush on his captain aside, the season's going so much better than he'd ever imagined that he's a little suspicious of it; a part of him is just waiting for something to go wrong.

Eisner would tell him to have a little faith, probably. He tells the Eisner in his head that he's never been much of a believer.

He's not about to start, either, because something does go wrong, when they play Caspar's old club Merceus.

Merceus is the kind of team that invokes sighs of nostalgia from fans who miss the blood and thunder of the old days, when men kicked the shit out of each other with no interference from referees and the league was free of those damn foreigners with their skill and flair and ability to trap a ball. Every time Derdriu has to play them Lorenz straps on a new pair of shinpads.

Today they're mostly not kicking him, though. They're all targeting Claude like that's the real sport, and Claude being Claude acts like he doesn't notice. He just gets back up and tries it again.

It's an ugly, broken mess of a game. No one can get a pass sequence or a dribble going without being fouled, and Lorenz is left praying the referee will start getting his cards out before someone gets hurt.

Then Claude gets the ball in the final third. Metodey's sticking to him like he's done all game, and Lorenz watches them just stare at each other over the ball for a split second among the din. Lorenz knows what's going to happen before Metodey does.

Claude lies with his eyes. He sends Metodey skidding the wrong way with a glance, flicks the ball over his head, and then he's off and Metodey's on his ass, the crowd roaring its approval.

When Metodey catches him he doesn't even bother going for the ball.

Lorenz's too far away to hear the crunch of the tackle over the crowd, but somehow he does anyway. It cuts clean through all the chants and screaming.

By the time he gets there, the entire team's standing over Claude, including Holst, who's staring at Metodey like he's an insect. Caspar's waving frantically for the doctors. Ignatz looks sick.

Lorenz pushes past them all and kneels down by Claude's head, trying not to look at the strange bend in his ankle.

"Claude. Talk to me."

"Think he broke something," Claude groans.

"Shouldn't have been showboating, should he?" Metodey says loudly, in the sudden quiet.

Lorenz's vision goes red.

*

Claude looks diminished in a hospital bed. He's not a big guy anyway, - though he's bulked up some since the early United days - and the gown and blankets and IV drip don't help. He seems almost frail.

"So. Three match ban?"

Claude somehow manages to still sound arch through the fuzz of painkillers.

"I haven't heard, but - probably. That's standard," Lorenz says. Standard when someone gets red carded for punching an opposing player in the face. Not that he's ever done anything so stupid before.

"That was stupid," Claude says, like he's reading his mind. "Now we're both out. You should apologise to the boss."

"I was worried about you, you - "

Claude's sudden smile is unbearably fond. "I know. It's adorable. My avenging angel. My sweet prince."

Lorenz tells himself sternly, over the sudden thumping of his heart, that it's just the painkillers talking. "Just get some rest. We're all…concerned about you."

"Come here."

Claude holds out his hand; Lorenz finds himself obeying like he's on strings.

"What are you - "

Claude's grip on Lorenz's arm is surprisingly firm, which is probably a good thing; Lorenz jolts like he's being electrocuted at the feather-soft brush of Claude's lips against his half-numb fingers.

"When I'm upright I'm gonna teach you how to punch properly," Claude says, fluttering his stupid long eyelashes like he's saying something much more salacious. "You could've broken something."

*

**_IS VON RIEGAN'S SHOWBOATING GOING TOO FAR?_ **

_What the players and experts think_

...

_Some say he brings it upon himself. That his showboating, like the flick that left Metodey on the turf in Derdriu's 0-0 draw with Merceus last week, makes him a fair target. The studs and crunching challenges he is often subjected to are justifiable retribution for the humiliation and disrespect he metes out to opponents._

*

> **Claude Von Riegan** @CvR A statement on the past week
> 
> _[A screenshot of a typed statement]_
> 
> _A lot's been said recently about how I play and whether it's disrespectful to the opposition. For me it's an easy question. The fans come to see us play. They want to see something memorable, and I want to give it to them. Derdriu bought me knowing how I play, and I'm not going to change._
> 
> _Let me ask a question too: why is it that it's not called disrespectful showboating when other players do it?_
> 
> _When I started out, I got labelled a so-called "bad boy" for having tattoos and funny hair and going out sometimes. Lots of players do, but they don't get stuck with that label. Why is that?_
> 
> _When I came here they told me that one of Derdriu's core values is respect. Respect is a two way street._
> 
> _I'm the first Almyran captain of any club in Fodlan. I'm well aware of that. The way I'm discussed reflects that. Same with the other foreign players in the league. The way we talk about our few Duscuran players is frankly sickening._
> 
> _What we say matters. I'm not asking to be spared criticism. I'm asking for a little reflection, a little care._
> 
> _Thanks for all the get well messages and well wishes. My injury's not as bad as we thought and I hope to be back as soon as possible._
> 
> _Thanks for all the other messages too._
> 
> _Like it says over the badge: together as one._
> 
> _CvR_
> 
> **Derdriu Proud** @GoldAndBlackArmy thought-provoking stuff, encourage everyone to have a read whatever they think about Metodey RT @CvR A statement on the past week
> 
> **GMU til I die** @GMUnited7281 @CvR fucking Almyran traitor
> 
> Metodey should've broken both your legs
> 
> **DFC Fan TV** @DFCFanTV NEW EPISODE! Respect, Metodey, the Derdriu Way and all that - we debate, you decide! youtu.be/s^lskdjsk

*

The address Claude texts him is a central city penthouse apartment in the trendiest part of town. It makes immediate sense - Lorenz can't picture Claude living where most of the players live, out in the quiet, rich suburbs.

Lorenz himself bought an old villa near the training ground when he got a first team contract and then sunk most of his early paychecks into restoring it to its former glory. It's far too big for him; he feels like a ghost rattling about its halls during the rainy season. But at least he's never been featured in a listicle of the ugliest footballer homes.

Claude's apartment is a modernist nightmare. The only sign that anyone lives there is the mess - there's a laptop, a tablet and two phones on the enormous glass coffee table, buried among books and moleskines and flyers for museum exhibitions and the circus.

"Tada! Welcome to my humble abode."

The mess, at least, feels like Claude, who's standing there in his bare feet and one of his array of henleys. This one's a forest green, flipped open, showing the dip of his collarbones and the edge of the crescent moon tattoo on his sternum; as usual Claude seems to regard buttons as an optional extra at best, because he exists to torment Lorenz.

"It's not what I pictured," Lorenz admits.

Claude looks vaguely embarrassed. "It's a rental. I haven't had time to look for anything more permanent. Don't mind the mess. You're probably itching just looking at it, huh."

Lorenz is in fact suppressing the urge to ask if he needs a cleaning service, but he can't admit that now.

"Have a seat," Claude says. "Do you want a drink? Nutritionists won't kill us for having a glass of wine."

That feels like an inherently dangerous idea. Claude impairs his judgement enough without the aid of alcohol. "No, thank you."

"Tea? I have Chamomile."

Lorenz nods, and takes the opportunity to examine how Claude's moving. No pained wince or any hesitation in his walk. He's not quite his usual casually graceful self, but it's a step up.

"You look better."

"Thanks. Still a way off training, though. I hate sitting around. I've annoyed all my friends into blocking my number already."

"I haven't blocked your number," Lorenz says, amused.

Claude pauses in pouring tea to raise his eyebrows. "Are we friends, Lorenz?"

"I hope we are," Lorenz says softly.

"Even after this week?"

It's been a hell of a week. At least this time the furore's not pointed inwards, but that just means the impact's wider. Claude's statement had the whole league talking. The controversy's expanded from the sports pages to the opinion columns of national newspapers and talk shows. The club's media people are going spare.

Lorenz's never seen anything like it.

"I think it's brave, what you do."

"I let them cut my hair, you know. When I was promoted." Claude gestures at the side of his face, where the braid that had once so annoyed Lorenz used to hang. "Not very brave."

"You were young," Lorenz says, past the lump in his throat.

Claude drops down next to him on the couch with a deep sigh. "Yeah. I'd say no now, but it's easy to say that when there's less risk, isn't it."

"It's never easy."

"You didn't let them cut yours."

Lorenz winces. He'd been hoping Claude didn't know. It feels hopelessly juvenile now, even though he'd probably still do the same.

"I'm not as brave as you are," he says, and it comes out too raw, full of the things he can't put a name to.

"Aren't you?" Claude says, and the way he looks at Lorenz is a challenge he's helpless to do anything but rise to.

Claude's hair is as silky as it looks, sliding through his fingers, and his lips are soft, a little chapped. When Lorenz starts to pull back he follows, his tongue darting out to caress Lorenz's bottom lip.

Lorenz is maybe more terrified than he's ever been in his life, more than when he walked out on his father. More than his first start. He can't look at Claude.

Claude cups his face, forcing him to look back up and meet his gaze. For once he's not inscrutable at all. His gaze is calm, steady. Full of understanding.

"Hey, Lorenz, it's okay. I sort of figured."

"You - "

"I haven't told anyone." Claude grabs both his hands, and only then does Lorenz realise he's shaking. "I'm pretty sure no one knows, Lorenz. It's okay."

"There's a reason nobody's out," he says. The chill in his chest is persistent, but Claude's chasing it away with his warmth.

"No male players. Edelgard von Hresvelg is out," Claude points out, because he exists to annoy Lorenz.

"You know what I meant."

"What about Gautier and the baby Fraldarius? Everyone knows about those two."

"Not everyone." Although it sort of figures. Those two always had a weirdly intense vibe. "Do you really think Fhirdiad City fans would be fine with that? You don't strike me as naive."

Claude sighs. "No, probably not. The world never changes fast enough. That doesn't mean you can't be happy. That's what my mom always says, anyway." He winds his arms around Lorenz's shoulders, beaming at him like they just scored. "You wanna give it a try?"

Lorenz can't draw enough breath to answer, not when they're this close. He can only press his mouth to Claude's.

*

Lorenz knows this much about Claude Von Riegan:

There's an enormous tattoo of some winged creature across his stomach and down his hip. Unfortunately like everything else about the man Lorenz doesn't find it nearly as off-putting as he should.

He does his own eyebrows. It takes an inordinately long time.

He's a sore loser.

He's brave.

He's got the most amazing game vision Lorenz has ever seen. It's like he can see the pitch from an overhead camera. Lorenz is more than a little in love with the way he plays.

He's more than a little in love with the man, too. He might as well admit it.

**Author's Note:**

>   1. Have I spent too much time reading football media, both trashy and not? Yes. Look, I've been doing it for 14 years. I can ghost write most of it in my sleep.
>   2. I imagined Claude as something inbetween the classic no 10s and the modern ones - less languid than a Riquelme type but flashier than a Kaka. Kind of a Thiago Alcantara type if he played further forward.
>   3. Lorenz is a Xabi Alonso/Sergio Busquets type central midfielder. Holst is Oliver Kahn but prettier. Hilda is a terrifying midfield enforcer.
>   4. I'm a Barcelona fan so I can't help but love all the bullshit about tradition and the soul of a club and the [insert club] way but I also recognise that it can be pretty insidious. This fic is in part about all the things I love about football and its fandom and some of the things I don't.
>   5. If you made it this far, thank you. I hope you had fun. Comments are adored.
> 



End file.
